Concessions
by danang1970
Summary: Mental illness isn't all sock puppets and silly accents. How does the team deal with the darker side of Murdock's problems?
1. Chapter 1

**Concessions**

As usual, it was Hannibal who first noticed that something wasn't right.

It was five weeks after the team's baptism by fire in Mexico, and if the mood amongst the soon-to-be-official A-Team's members wasn't exactly relaxed, it had at least settled into a kind of acceptance. Hannibal was pleased to see Face put aside his reservations about their two new teammates, using the time they were temporarily stationed at a military base at California to get to know BA and Murdock as reams of paperwork made its sluggish way through the system.

BA had grumblingly accepted a tenuous truce with Murdock after Face promised to hook him up with a new, identical van by the time BA was officially reinstated in the Army. He still bristled around the pilot though, and Face wasn't sure if Murdock's constant flitting around BA were deliberate attempts to antagonise the (much) larger man or symptoms that his survival instinct was as erratic as his sanity.

Hannibal, for his part, just found the whole thing amusing. It might be an issue if BA continued to insist that he wasn't gettin' on no plane as long as that crazy fool was in the cockpit, but surely that was just bluster and would fade away in no time. As long as the team was able to function when they needed to (and he had no doubt that they would), Hannibal happily indulged a few little quirks in its members.

And none of them was more quirkful than Murdock. Those first few weeks, the pilot seemed to oscillate between manic excitement and nearly-tearful gratitude towards Hannibal and, by extension, Face. When Hannibal had shown him the official signed forms that would begin the process of reinstating Murdock's pilot's licence and allowing him back into active service, Murdock had spend twenty minutes scrutinising the form with his nose nearly touching the paper. Once he seemed satisfied that it was genuine, not some cruel and pointless trick or hallucination by an equally cruel and pointless part of his mind, Murdock had marched up to Hannibal, handed back the form and saluted crisply.

"I won't let you down, sir," he promised earnestly, face shining with conviction and eyes bright.

Five minutes later had found him running in circles around the base with his arms out, shouting, "ZOOOOOM!" at the top of his voice. Not making an airplane noise (as though that would be more normal): Actually saying the word "zoom". Face thought it was strangely endearing. Hannibal thought this was one of his best decisions yet. BA thought they was all crazy, must be contagious, stop kickin' sand on me, fool.

There was none of that manic excitement radiating from the pilot now. Hannibal watched, chewing on a cigar, as Murdock fiddled with his Army-issue Sig, worrying his fingers over the barrel like he was reading Braille. His shoulders were slightly hunched and his gaze darted around the rifle range like it was following the spastic flight of a bumblebee Hannibal couldn't see. In booths on either side of him, Face and BA were oblivious to his behaviour as they practiced with their own weapons. Despite the earplugs they were all wearing, Murdock flinched slightly at every crack of the rifles beside him.

Hannibal frowned but decided to see what Murdock would do before making a move. He didn't want his men to rely on him unconditionally, and if he hadn't thought that Murdock could take care of himself, he wouldn't have gone to the effort of hacking through all the red tape to acquire him for his team. No, Hannibal had read Murdock's file, but he trusted the Captain to know his mental health better than Hannibal did. It was why he'd handed over the prescriptions and small suitcase of medications to Murdock himself, allowing the pilot freedom to medicate and manage his "quirks" as he saw fit. That time, he hadn't gotten a salute, but the bowed head and muttered, "Thank you, sir," had been just as rewarding.

So now, Hannibal watched and waited.

Inside the booth, Murdock locked his arms at the elbows and clutched his Sig tightly, trying to stop the tremors rattling their way through his thin frame. Any pretence of actually using the rifle range for practice was beyond him – at the moment, he was just trying to steady his breathing and stop the dark edges from intruding too far into his field of vision. He took a deep breath and tried to exhale slowly, but it spluttered like an old jalopy backfiring. Someone had thinned the air out. It was making his hands and feet go numb. He was sure they were blue, turning black, rotting as his nails yellowed and his fingers atrophied into twisted claws around the Sig. When they tried to take the gun from him, his fingers would snap off and all his rotted bits would come out from the inside.

His saliva was gone and Murdock could feel his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. His heart wasn't hammering; it was vibrating, like he'd sat too close to a water jet in a spa. He was cold but his goosebumped flesh was pouring out thick, sicky-smelling sweat. It was trying to exorcise him through his pores. His body knew there was something not right inside him.

_Oh god, not now. Come on come on come on come on come on come on. Don't do this now. _Murdock clenched his teeth against another tremor. _You're fine. Breathe. Stop it. You're fine. Don't do this now._

The numbness crept up Murdock's arms and his face started to tingle. The blackness throbbed at the edges of his vision, whirling with negative colours and making him seasick. He realised it was a choice between leaving the booth and pulling himself together, or fainting right there. Fainting's not what Rangers do. Too close to swooning. Unacceptable. Right. Okay then.

Murdock didn't register the excuse he gave to Hannibal as he handed the Colonel his weapon and made a beeline for the barracks on the other side of the camp. He'd removed the earplugs but everything was still muffled and warped. He hoped he was speaking in English and not Spanish or Navajo or Swahili or just moaning nonsense sounds. But Hannibal took the gun and nodded, and okay he looked concerned but he didn't physically stop Murdock or worse, ask if everything was okay, which was good because right now Murdock probably would have thrown up or passed out in the time it would have taken to answer that he was fine, everything was fine, it was all fine.

When the black spots were sucked back behind his eyeballs where he couldn't see them, Murdock realised that he hadn't made it to the barracks at all. Oops. He was hidden from sight from the rifle range at least, which was good – that was important for some reason that he couldn't remember right this second, but it would come to him. Murdock was counting small victories at the moment: He wasn't passed out (yay!), he hadn't thrown up (yay!), he hadn't pissed himself or otherwise done anything embarrassing or unseemly in the vicinity of his new team (yay! Oh, that's why he needed to be hidden! Remembering: Yay!). He wasn't sweating anymore, but the thick, unhealthy sweat that smelled of shame and wrongness was cooling on his skin and making him shiver. That was okay though – nothing a quick shower couldn't fix.

However: Uh oh. Here came Hannibal, and Murdock was still squatting on the ground beside the supply shed. How undignified. He pulled himself to his feet and managed to be standing upright without leaning on anything by the time Hannibal had made his way over (yay!).

Casting a critical eye over his Captain, Hannibal noted slightly trembling hands, a forehead beaded with sweat, damp patches around his collar and underarms, and a sickly pallor to the skin. Murdock's eyes were clear, though, and a faint flush was already returning to his cheeks. Hannibal had seen worse panic attacks from greenies in their first firefights. Hell, in their first days of training. This was acceptable – as long as it didn't happen on the field.

"Problem, Captain?" he asked mildly, chewing an unlit cigar.

Murdock shook his head. "No, sir," he replied emphatically, straightening his shoulders.

Hannibal nodded approvingly. "Good." He kept chewing his cigar, looking at Murdock as though he was waiting for something.

Murdock met his gaze, if not levelly, then at least without fidgeting. After a few beats, Hannibal gave a ghost of a smile. "Okay, kid. Grab a quick shower and we'll meet you back at our tent."

With a sloppy salute and a, "Sir!", Murdock was trotting off to the showers on slightly shaky legs.

Later, both he and Hannibal would feel very stupid for thinking that the worst was over.


	2. Chapter 2

Face woke abruptly, his body instinctively tensing without making any visible movements. It was a skill he'd like to say he picked up while in the Army, always on the lookout for the enemy and ready to spring into action at the slightest hint of something amiss, but the truth was that he'd used this trait more in the beds of last night's women than in combat. When you weren't one hundred percent certain where you were, who you were with, how attractive they were in the daylight and whether that was a wedding ring on their finger, it was best to play dead for a few minutes upon waking to assess the situation. Sometimes it was just best to play dead all morning, until they left the room and you could escape through the window... But to be fair to Face, that was only if the husband was home or the girl was really, REALLY ugly. Like, monobrow and mole-hair ugly. He wasn't a total asshole.

So, inventory. He was curled on a slightly-too-small cot, the smell of must in his nose and soft, heavy wuffs of breathing coming from his right. Ah. He was in the wooden structure that served as the team's barracks in California. Hannibal had decided they could all bunk together to build mateship and camaraderie and other words that showed the new recruits how down-to-earth and unorthodox he was for a Colonel. Face was used to Hannibal's methods so he hadn't really paid attention, just sighed and made a mental note to hide his moisturisers and leave-in conditioners from BA and Murdock. BA because Face knew teasing would be inevitable, and Murdock because he'd probably try to eat them or something.

Now, in the middle of the night, Face concentrated on the breathing he could hear. Three distinct sets of- No, wait. Two sets of quiet snores, one muffled, scratching noise. That would be his impromptu alarm clock, then.

Face sat up slowly and looked around. It didn't take long for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and find the source of the scratching sound. Murdock was kneeling on his bunk, hunched towards the wall and tracing the wood with his fingers. No, not tracing – rubbing. Face leaned forward and squinted. Drawing? He cleared his throat softly so he wouldn't startle the pilot, but the other man gave no sign that he had heard.

Carefully, so as not to wake Hannibal and BA, Face slid off his cot and shuffled the few feet over to the pilot. Their bunks were on one side of the small, square building, Hannibal and BA's on the other. He hovered awkwardly next to Murdock's bed. Face didn't always know how to act around the Captain. Most of the time it was fine – Murdock could be a really funny and surprisingly smart guy when he was focussed enough to have a one-on-one conversation. He was surprisingly laid-back for someone who could be so manic, and Face found himself genuinely enjoying some of the pilot's eccentricities. Murdock was refreshing and unlike anything Face had ever encountered: Someone with a quick wit, vivid imagination and absolutely no guile. Whatever he felt in the moment was what he gave you, no bullshit. BA rolled his eyes at the two of them, but Face honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard, so much.

But then there was the thing that niggled in the back of Face's mind, that sometimes tainted the jokes and the capers and what seemed like harmless fantasies.

They'd gotten the man out of a mental institution, for gods' sake. Hannibal could go on about talent and opportunity and commitment, but Face knew that the older man had no more experience with mental illness than he did. He trusted Hannibal, he always did, but now, in the dark, he couldn't help but feel that they'd gotten a little over their heads.

Murdock was definitely drawing something on the wall. He must have gotten into the paints that BA had appropriated from the supply shed. He was finger-painting, strange whirling arches that abruptly became dark, jagged shapes with hard lines that glistened slightly where the paint was still wet. The images weren't disturbing in and of themselves, but the fact that a grown man was fingerpainting on the wall in the middle of the night was definitely creeping Face out. He had a mental image of the dead-eyed, zombie-ish mental patients from films like _Cuckoo's Nest_ and _Halloween_: Staggering around the grounds of an institution in white gowns, eerily silent and staring.

Fuck this. Face was a RANGER. He wasn't about to get spooked by spontaneous art. "Hey," he offered softly. "Whatcha drawing?" Well, it was something. It broke the silence, at least.

Still no reply. Murdock's fingers scraped at the wood.

"Murdock? Helloooo?" Maybe if Face acted like this was normal, it wouldn't be so fucking weird. "Can you stop for a second?"

Scrape, scrape, scrape. Bits of the paint had gotten onto Murdock's arms and were flaking and drying. Face stared at them. There was something...

Oh. _Shit_.

Face leaned across the bunk and gripped Murdock's wrist. His fingers twitched in the air a few times before they seemed to register that they were no longer touching a solid surface and stilled. Face turned the hand over and gritted his teeth. The pads of Murdock's index and middle fingers were rubbed raw. The side of his hand and pinky finger, which he must have used for the larger whorls, were in a similar state. His palm had a large, rough scrape and a gash that looked like it might need stitches. The whole thing was covered in splinters.

"Ah shit." Face had no idea what to do. If this was a field injury he'd handle it pronto, with a smirk and some light banter. It wasn't a terrible injury. It was just... How had this happened? Well, he knew how it happened. But why would you do that to yourself? HOW could you do that? Ow.

"Murdock?" Face was still holding his wrist. He loosened his grip slightly. "Hey man, what did you do?" The answer was obvious but he just wanted the other man to talk.

Murdock turned towards Face. "What?" he asked irritably, as though Face was the one being batshit insane in the middle of the night and disturbing his beauty sleep with creepy blood drawings.

Well fuck this shit. "Your hand, man," Face snapped, probably louder than he should have. He shook the wrist of the offending appendage roughly. "What the fuck?"

The pilot stared at his hand. He jerked away from Face, looking up at him with an almost feral scowl the conman had never seen on him before. "What did you do?" Murdock hissed angrily.

"I...What? I didn't do anything!"

Murdock cradled his wrist against his chest protectively. His eyes were dark, lips curled back in a vicious snarl. This wasn't the Murdock Face was used to. The blond fought back a hysterical grin as the phrase, "And who am I speaking to now?" danced across his brain. This wasn't funny at all.

"I knew you'd try something," the madman was spitting. "Standing over my bed while you think I'm asleep, I've seen you. I knew you brought me here to hurt me, like you did before. Waiting until I'm asleep. Don't touch me!"

Face hadn't moved. Hannibal and BA had woken though, and made their way to Murdock's bunk as Face protested, "I didn't touch you." He turned to the Colonel. "Hannibal, he's hurt himse-"

Suddenly, Murdock lashed out, swiping at Face's head like a deranged monkey, fingers curled into claws. A stripe of blood smeared Face's cheek and chin as he stumbled backwards and struggled to grip the other man's forearms. Near as he could figure, Murdock was actually trying to scratch his eyes out. Man, he was definitely going to need to learn some manlier fighting techniques. This was just embarrassing.

It took virtually no time at all for the three men to subdue the scrabbling pilot. In less than ten seconds, he was secured against BA's chest by the larger man's mammoth arms. If BA was holding him a little tighter than necessary, then Hannibal could allow it – to the Corporal's credit, he didn't look like he was about to say anything derogatory about Murdock. Not right at this moment, anyway.

Murdock strained and struggled uselessly against BA for a few moments then fell still, panting. Face scrubbed a hand over his face, looking to Hannibal for a clue about how to deal with this.

It was Murdock, though, who spoke up. "I'm sorry," he panted plaintively, making Face feel like HE was the crazy one because Murdock did not just do a complete 180 personality change in fifteen seconds. The pilot seemed to sag in BA's arms. "Aw, fuck," he drawled, looking around him in distress. "Aw fuck, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."

The last few "sorry"s were directed at Face before Murdock hung his head and trailed off. Again, Face and BA looked to Hannibal. The older man seemed to make a decision and went to his own trunk at the back of the room. As Hannibal rummaged around inside, Face realised BA was planning on keeping stoically silent throughout this whole episode. _I guess if you can't say anything nice..._ So it was down to Face, then. Lovely.

"Hey," said Face, tentatively reaching for Murdock. When there was no sign of another demented attack, he nodded to BA and the Corporal let Murdock go. Face gripped the slightly shaking arms firmly and ducked his head, trying to make eye-contact. "Um. Hey. It's okay. Are you okay? You wanna sit down?"

So he would never be an eloquent counsellor. Face didn't sign up for this shit. He was tired, and irritated, and a little spooked, and annoyed at himself for being concerned about Murdock because it was clear that the guy wasn't rowing with both oars (he might even be trying to row with a piano). So now Face was going to lose sleep and care and all that bullshit over someone who'd probably be sent back to the mental hospital in the morning.

Hannibal returned with a syringe and small first aid kit. Murdock didn't protest as his arm was lifted and injected. "Just a sedative," Hannibal explained to the pilot as he and Face lowered him to the bed.

After he was settled on the bed, Murdock's uninjured hand lashed out again, but this time to latch onto Face's own with a death grip. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm sorry." It was like his brain was stuck.

Face shrugged helplessly. Nothing about this was normal. "That's okay man." He sat awkwardly on the side of the bed. Hannibal and BA backed off, not wanting to crowd Murdock but close enough to intervene if he had another violent mood swing. They didn't have to worry. The man on the bed didn't make any attempt to move, though he kept his grip on Face's hand.

Gradually, Murdock's breathing slowed and his eyes drifted closed. At some point, Face had started stroking the back of the other man's hand with his thumb, thoughtless soothing like a parent hushing a crying child. His own mind was reeling, still trying to catch up with what had happened. He heard Hannibal and BA shuffle back to bed, dimly registered the Colonel putting the first aid kit next to his foot. It was a long time before Face could move – he later wondered if he'd gone into a kind of weird shock. For hours, he just sat there, staring at Murdock, stroking his hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal wasn't surprised when BA entered his office (without knocking). He had hoped to at least have the chance to finish his first cup of coffee before the inevitable confrontation, but that would just be too merciful of the universe, wouldn't it? That was something they didn't teach you in Colonel school, Hannibal reflected: The fact that any and all skills, intuition and nous you had would have to be utilised to their full potential on three hours' sleep, no food and half a cup of weak, gritty coffee.

Still, no one said Colonelling would be easy. Hannibal closed the file in front of him and took as big a mouthful of coffee as possible without choking himself or bulging his cheeks like a fish, which wouldn't suit the commanding air he was going for at all. BA didn't sit, but rested his hands on the back of the chair facing Hannibal's desk, meeting the Colonel's gaze sternly.

"Crazy fool ain't right in the head," BA said solemnly.

Hannibal couldn't deny it, not before and certainly not after last night (this morning? Why wasn't there a curfew for these sorts of problems?). He said nothing. BA had known about the pilot's condition when they'd appropriated Murdock from the psychiatric wing of the VA hospital.

BA scowled at Hannibal's lack of response. "Crazy fool," he said again, "is crazy. Sir." BA sighed and broke eye contact with his Colonel. "Look, I appreciate everything you done for me, getting me reenlisted, taking a chance on me, giving me the opportunity to serve my country again the way I do best. And I appreciate the fact that you're just trying to do the same with the f- Captain Murdock. But, sir. With all due respect, and you know that ain't something I give out lightly. Are you sure you know what you're doing here? Because I gotta be honest. I ain't sure I can work with someone like that."

Hannibal considered his words carefully before replying. "I respect your honestly, Corporal, and I understand your concerns." He held up a hand before BA could speak, knowing the other man thought he was being fed a line. "I mean that. We're going to be a small group working in close quarters, and I always want you to feel that you can come to me and that I'll take your opinions into consideration. I'm not running a dictatorship here.

"However, on the issue of Captain Murdock, I do still believe that he's the best man for our unit. I read his file and interviewed his doctors extensively before making this decision and it wasn't made lightly. I was aware that special considerations would need to be made, and I'm doing everything in my power to ensure that his... condition is properly managed, for the good of the team." Hannibal levelled his gaze at BA. "I would never put my men at risk, Baracus. If Murdock proves to be a liability, then he's off the team. But I don't think we're there yet."

BA sighed and finally dropped into the small office chair facing Hannibal's desk. "I wondered why you had a syringe full of sedatives just lying around," he muttered.

Hannibal smiled faintly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "That was one of the contingency plans," he agreed, the formality of Colonel Smith replaced by the Hannibal BA was more familiar with. "I have to say, I'd hoped I wouldn't have to use it. Is he still asleep?" The dose he'd been given should keep Murdock out for at least five hours, which meant Hannibal had about an hour before he had to deal with that part of the equation.

BA nodded. "Yeah, he and the Faceman are still passed out. If I didn't know, I'd say they BOTH been drugged." He eyed Hannibal suspiciously, as if not putting it past him to take out Face with a blowdart filled with rhino tranqs from his bed.

"I'm glad the Lieutenant finally got some sleep," Hannibal replied evenly, happy to keep the fear of sudden and unexpected sedation in BA's mind. Face said Hannibal enjoyed playing up to his maverick reputation far too much. Maybe he was right.

"Mmm." BA didn't seem interested in pursuing that line of thought. He leant forward in his chair. "Hannibal, you got an angle on this, right? I mean, you know something about this guy that makes you trust him, makes you think this is gonna work out. Yeah?" It wasn't pleading. It was a request for confirmation.

Hannibal would have to be careful here. He owed his team the truth, but he also owed Murdock confidentiality. He LEGALLY owed Murdock confidentiality. He could get into a lot of hot water by discussing the contents of someone else's files. "Yes," he allowed.

BA stared at him. Hannibal met his gaze unflinchingly. Finally, the big man leaned back. "Okay. Okay. And you say you got a way to handle him. To handle any crazy shit he might pull."

"If it compromises a mission or the team's safety, absolutely." Hannibal would in no way accept blame for shit being interpreted as crazy if someone was simply following a direct order from Hannibal himself. In those instances, crazy was relative (and the adjective was used far too often by alarmist superiors, in Hannibal's opinion).

BA nodded. "Okay man. Okay. You say you got this, I trust you. No idea why, but I trust you. Just know, if this gets out of hand, I'm out, sir. I didn't sign on to play nursemaid or shrink or babysitter. I don't wanna have to be looking over my shoulder 'cause I can't trust the guys on my own team, either."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Hannibal replied.

BA seemed satisfied with that, and excused himself to the mess hall. As the door swung shut behind him, Hannibal rubbed his eyes. Well. That had gone better than expected.

...Which was a stupid, foolish thing to think, because instantly there was another knock on his door, and here was Face, looking puffy-eyed, exhausted and clearly needing to talk. Hannibal was going to have to deal with this whole thing before his eggs, wasn't he? He settled for pulling out a cigar, lighting it as his Lieutenant slumped into the recently-vacated chair without asking.

Face had obviously made a cursory attempt to look his usual crisp, well-presented self, but even a shower and clean clothes couldn't hide the fatigue from his countenance. The bags under his eyes were tinged purple, and he was fiddling with his hands distractedly. Just looking at him made Hannibal want another cup of coffee, disturbingly crunchy though it was.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

Unlike BA, Face didn't seem to have anything prepared. That wasn't unusual. The younger man often sought his Colonel out in his rare moments of uncertainty, when he needed a sounding board for ideas or reassurance or just a talk to distract him from whatever nerves or thoughts of self-doubt were rattling through his brain. Hannibal didn't mind. After two years of serving together, he and Face were more like friends, brothers, compadres... Whatever you wanted to call it. They didn't have formal military boundaries to their relationship, and that was fine with both of them. They found each other easy to be with, easy to like, and that made it easy to work together. It made them care about the missions they were on together, because they had a vested interest in each other's welfare and, by extension, the success of the operation. Whatever other people might have said, their unorthodox relationship was never a hindrance. If anything, it was an asset that neither could have predicted.

After a few moments, Face spoke. "Is he going to be okay?" he asked lowly, his voice rough from lack of sleep and energy.

Hannibal frowned. What a loaded question. _Christ, kid, don't make it easy on me_... "The sedative I gave him was mild, and recommended to me by his doctor at the VA so it wouldn't react badly with any other meds that he's taking," Hannibal answered diplomatically. Facts first. No point in speculation at this point, not when Murdock hadn't woken up yet and Hannibal wasn't even certain what Face was asking. "He should be up within the hour. I saw you bandaged his hand."

Face didn't seem satisfied with that answer. "No, I mean, yeah I fixed up his hand, but Hannibal. I mean. What was that? What happened there? Is that... Is that normal for him? Will he just... bounce back from that? You saw him, his moods were all over the place; it was like he didn't recognise us. When he wakes up, what will he be like? How's he gonna... What'll it do to him, going back?"

For a moment, Hannibal was confused. Then it hit. "Face, Murdock's not going back to the hospital."

Face stared blankly, having babbled out all his questions and now unable to deal with this unexpected revelation. "He... What? Why not?"

There was a strange tone in Face's question. "Do you WANT him to go back?"

Again, Face seemed at a loss for words. His mouth hung open as he attempted to formulate a response. If the conversation hadn't been so serious, Hannibal might have enjoyed seeing his normally smooth and unflappable Lieutenant flabbergasted by a simple lack of sleep and psychotic episode. "Isn't the hospital the best place for him?" Face responded finally.

Hannibal settled back into his chair, chewing his cigar. Face liked Murdock. Hannibal was glad. The Colonel and Face's unusual friendship, as well as Face's tendency for bluffing, showboating and generally presenting only select parts of his personality had meant that other officers were often wary of approaching the conman in a social capacity. Face had never seemed bothered: As long as there was a steady stream of attractive women in his life, he was content to have Hannibal as his main comrade on base.

But with the arrival of the pilot and BA came new people to Face's working and social circles. People closer to his own age, people with similarly chequered histories with the service, people who were FRESH. Face, god bless the kid, had put aside his reservations about BA and Murdock (and he'd had plenty, after that first encounter in Mexico) and used this time in limbo, as they all waited for the go-ahead to take on missions as an official unit, to try and figure out what Hannibal saw in the two men. He'd started fairly formally, simply showing them around base and offering to provide them with anything special they might need. Then BA had asked for "a new damn van" and Murdock had offered to fix the other one ("I'm real handy with Scotch tape and a glue gun! When they let me have a glue gun and someone's watching, cos I'm not supposed to use scissors or electrical equipment without supervision"). Face had laughed because he didn't know if it was a joke or not, and Murdock laughed too. BA shook his head in exasperation, and the ice was, if not broken, then a little cracked.

A week later, BA had come back from a workout in the weights area to find a strange, small lump in his bed. He'd pulled back the covers and picked up the object resting on his pillow. It fit neatly in the palm of his hand, and was made from a toilet roll, some dirty nuts and bolts, part of a plastic water bottle, a couple of shoelaces and a lot of Scotch tape. It was lopsided and haphazardly cobbled together, but it was very clearly a tiny model of BA's old van. Murdock must have talked to Face, because even the bright stripe down the side was there, scribbled in red ink. As BA turned it over, he'd seen a post-it note stuck to the side.

_Temporary replacement, _it read. _Sorry about the real one. –HM Murdock_

As far as Hannibal knew, BA had never said anything to Murdock about the gift, but it was still sitting on the small table beside his bed. After that, his comments towards the pilot seemed to get less biting, though he was still gruff as anything and swore up a blue streak anytime anyone mentioned letting Murdock fly him anywhere.

These boys definitely had the potential to be something great, reflected Hannibal. It was just a matter of getting all the teething problems ironed out. Could you iron a teething problem? Did you iron the kinks out of something, or the wrinkles? What did you do with teething problems? He definitely needed more coffee.

Meanwhile, Face was waiting for an answer. This was a tricky one. Was Murdock better off in the hospital than in active service? Or more to the point, was he better off in the hospital than anywhere else? Hannibal didn't believe so, but his opinion was made up of 60 percent gut feeling and 40 percent confidential information. He hoped the intangible 60 percent would be enough for Face, for now.

"I don't think Murdock belongs in a hospital," Hannibal told Face honestly. "I think he has problems, problems that are serious and that may have been exacerbated by his coming here so suddenly, but I think they're problems that can be managed. I'm in contact with his doctors from the hospital. Murdock has access to all the medications he needs and the base counsellor if he has to talk to someone. And he'll have us." He stared at Face pointedly. "Like we helped him last night. He won't be on his own."

Face shook his head, looking annoyed with Hannibal. "I didn't say he'd be on his own here," he argued. "I asked if he'd be BETTER in the hospital. Shit, Hannibal, you were there last night. The guy doesn't have ordinary problems. Meds, a counsellor... Fuck, I'VE taken Ativan before a mission. This isn't run of the mill anxiety or shellshock. This is... I mean, fuck. What does he even have, anyway?"

"You know I can't tell you that," answered Hannibal, just like Face knew he would. "That's confidential and if Murdock wants to talk about it he will, but you aren't going to push him."

"Well of course not, Hannibal, jeez." Face ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He was the only man Hannibal knew who groomed himself when he was stressed. "Just, honestly, if he can't handle the move from the hospital to here, then how will he handle active service? Not much routine once you're off base. And how can we trust him to fly us and be all there when we need him to be if we can't trust him to go to sleep without mutilating himself?"

"He was hardly mutilated, Face."

"That's not the point! That's not normal. And we're not expecting normal things from him: We're expecting top-class, secret service Ranger quality shit from this guy."

"You know he's the best, Face," said Hannibal patiently. "We've been through this."

Face choked back a grunt of annoyance. "Yes, he can physically fly. I saw that. But what about mentally? Let's say he CAN get through missions and fly through bombs and missile attacks without breaking a sweat. What about afterwards? What about at night when he's rubbing his skin raw and freaking out that we're going to kill him? We can't watch him like they could in a hospital, unless you want to start taking shifts at sentry duty at the foot of his bed. We can't know what he needs in a situation like that, because we're not trained or experienced like doctors and nurses. We might miss something, or do the wrong thing, and make him worse. Is that something you want to take on? Is it fair to MURDOCK to take that on?"

Ah, here was the crux of it, finally. Face wasn't just worried about the team, his own safety or his own peace of mind. He was concerned about Murdock. Hannibal knew it was selfish, in its own way, but he was incredibly pleased that the kid had found someone he could relate to, and hell if he was letting it go without a fight. And he honestly did believe that Murdock was better off in his team than anywhere else. Period. The man had a gift, not just for flying, but in his mind. The thing that made him "insane" was tinted with true genius and Hannibal was intrigued by Murdock's off-centre perspective. It would be valuable to have someone in briefings who could come at things from another angle, provide new ideas and inspiration. Hannibal was greatly looking forward to it.

"Face, Murdock was given a choice about this," he countered. "He knew what joining our team meant and what would be expected and required of him. He says he can handle it. We at least owe him the opportunity to prove it."

"Is Murdock in the position to decide what's best for him?" As soon as he said it, Face knew he'd stepped over a line. He didn't back down though. It was out there now, and as much as he liked Murdock, it needed to be said.

Hannibal's lips thinned around his cigar. "You mean, is he capable of giving consent?" he asked.

"Don't be glib," Face snapped. "You didn't ask for his consent before knocking him unconscious last night. He's okay to decide to fly and work with you, but not okay to calm himself down in a freakout? So, what, he only has a say in things when what he says benefits YOU? It's okay to exploit the mentally ill as long as they've got some skills you can-"

Hannibal slammed a hand on his desk. "Lieutenant, you're on thin ice," he said harshly. "I have never and will never exploit anyone for this team, or for any other purpose. You know me well enough to know that. Now I'm going to give you some leeway over that outburst because I know you're operating on about half an hour's sleep and this is a stressful situation for all of us, but I don't ever want to hear backchat like that from you again. I give you a hell of a lot of liberties in this team, Face. Don't start taking my respect for granted."

Face, looking suitably chagrined, opened his mouth to speak. His wasn't the next voice to cut through the tension in the room, however.

"Um," said Murdock from the doorway. "Is this a bad time?"


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks so much for the reviews. They're what keeps me writing. Thanks for reading!

To his credit, Hannibal only froze for the very briefest of moments. "Captain," he greeted brightly. "Glad to see you up and about. Take a seat." He gestured to the faux-leather sofa on the right-hand side of the office as though he'd sent for Murdock personally and had been expecting him all along.

As the door swung open fully, it was apparent that Murdock wasn't so much standing in the doorway as leaning against it. His face was pale and he was still dressed in only the plain tee and boxers he'd slept in. He had managed to pull on his boots at least, but the laces were untied, sloppily shoved into the boots themselves to avoid a tripping hazard.

"The door was open..." Murdock offered by way of apology. Hannibal shot Face a quick glare that the Lieutenant could feel through the back of his skull.

The Captain pushed off the doorway and made his shaky way to the couch. Face was sympathetic: Trying to move around after being sedated was no easy feat. Well, Face knew what it was like trying to check yourself out of a field hospital after coming out of a general anaesthetic. He figured it was probably the same thing, but without later having to put up with Hannibal's lecture about "irresponsible" this and "reckless" that and "don't you dare try to bat your eyes at me Lieutenant, I'm not one of those nurses and you can't charm your way out of this", blah blah blah.

Belatedly, Face realised that once Murdock was settled, things were going to get very awkward. He couldn't just come out and ask, "How much did you hear?", because that would basically be waving a big "We Were Talking About You!" banner in Murdock's face. God dammit! Now Face felt like a teenaged girl caught gossiping, and feeling like a teenaged girl was one of his LEAST favourite feelings.

Of course, he should have learned by now to never underestimate Hannibal's ability to improvise.

"How are you feeling, Captain?" asked Hannibal. He still had a polite expression of interest on his features, not at all like the deer-in-the-headlights look Face was sure he'd sported when he'd heard Murdock's voice. God dammit, again. Face was never good at conning his friends. He really needed to work on that.

"I feel like I've been drugged, Sir," was Murdock's honest reply, and _HA!,_ thought Face_. _They both looked expectantly to Hannibal, one expression woozy and one distinctly shit-eating.

Hannibal ignored Face. "You were drugged," he confirmed to Murdock. "In fact, I wasn't expecting you to wake up for at least another hour."

Murdock gave a small jerk of the shoulders that could be taken as a shrug. "I got a fast metabolism." His speech was slightly slurred, Texas accent thick as he fought through the drug. "Were you talking? I can come back?"

"It's all right, Captain. The Lieutenant and I were just finishing up here."

Face took that as his cue to leave, but as he stood up, Murdock held out a hand. "No, it's okay, it's not... I mean, I just wanted to ask. What happened last night? I figure you were both there so I don't mind, if Face wants to stay."

Face didn't really want to stay. He was still feeling awkward and caught out, and he still didn't know how he felt about what happened last night. The easy banter he could normally engage in with the pilot didn't apply anymore and he felt strange and stiff, out of his depth. But this could be his only opportunity to get answers. Hannibal said that Murdock could talk to Face about his problems if he so chose. He didn't say that Murdock couldn't be loose-lipped from tranquilisers when he did so. This wasn't exploiting, Face rationed. It was... using an opportunity. He sat back into his chair.

Hannibal gave Face a warning look, which the Lieutenant ignored. "Do you remember anything about last night?" Face asked Murdock.

"Um, not really." Murdock looked embarrassed. So this had happened before. You lose chunks of memory, you panic. Unless you're used to it. "I remember going to bed, uh, having some weird dreams, but that's normal."

"Weird is normal?" Face blurted before he could stop himself.

Murdock quirked his lip. "Vivid. I'm on these..." He looked to Hannibal, as if realising that he might be saying something that he shouldn't. When the Colonel didn't say anything, Murdock continued. "Um, on these pills," another look to Hannibal, "for stuff," a look to Face now, to judge his reaction, "and one of the side-effects is you get really vivid dreams. I'm pretty used to it but, you know, I still notice it." Another strange half-shrug. He was talking slower than usual, like his brain wasn't working as fast as he needed it to and he couldn't filter what he should and shouldn't say. Face almost felt bad for seeing him in this state.

Hannibal seemed to feel the same – or he just didn't want Face to have the opportunity to learn about Murdock's private life because he was still sore about Face's outburst from before, the stubborn old bastard – because he steered the topic away. "You woke up in the middle of the night, Murdock," he said, deliberately keeping the conversation casual with the use of the man's name rather than military title. "You don't remember that?"

Murdock seemed to squirm without really moving. His face twitched a bit. "No." He seemed to be trying not to avoid eye-contact or blush. "Did I... What did I do?"

"Did you see the wall by your bed?" Again, Face's mouth worked faster than his brain, and he didn't need to look at Hannibal to imagine the glare that was being sent his way. Okay, that one he deserved.

"No," Murdock frowned. "I just woke up and you were all gone, and this." He waved his bandaged hand around vaguely. "So I came here. I didn't really... I didn't look around."

"Well," said Face, determined to fix what the foot in his mouth started. "You, ah. You kind of cut your hand. On the wall. By rubbing it on the wall." That was the truth, right? Without any editorialising comments like "and it was freaky as shit" or "you were acting so weird I was thinking we should call an old priest and a young priest".

"You weren't yourself, Murdock," said Hannibal. "You didn't seem to recognise us. Have you had an episode like that before?" He knew the answer, Face realised. Hannibal just wanted to know what Murdock would say about it.

"Um, I've had memory lapses before," and there was the embarrassment again, "but it's not something that happens all the time. I mean, it won't happen all the time." Face felt a wave of pity. "It's not usually..." Something seemed to occur to Murdock, and he looked at the other men with eyes as wide as they would go while the sedative still chugged through his bloodstream. "I didn't hurt anyone did I?"

"No," said Face firmly, before Hannibal could answer. "No, you were just hurting yourself. I mean, you didn't... Argh." Murdock gave a soft snort of laughter at Face's noise of frustration. Encouraged, Face grinned back. Okay, so it didn't have to be all eggshells. This was still the same guy he'd been hanging out with for five weeks. That made it easier. "You were fine," Face settled on. "You didn't hurt anyone or break anything. I was just worried about your hand. That's why we sedated you." He was getting into the swing of it now. "So you could get some rest and we could look at your hand."

"Were you the one who...?" Murdock waved the bandaged appendage again.

"Yeah. It was nothing." Hannibal raised an eyebrow at the modesty, which Face pointedly ignored. "You didn't need much. I just cleaned the splinters out and disinfected it. There's a cut on your palm that needed a couple of steri-strips, but it should be fine in a couple of days. Um, your fingertips were kinda... raw, so they might sting a bit, but if you keep them wrapped up they'll be fine."

Murdock looked down and poked at his injured palm gingerly. "Thanks."

"No problem." Face stopped himself from saying "Anytime," because this wasn't something he wanted to make a habit of, and he was pretty sure Murdock wouldn't appreciate the implication that Face thought it would be a regular occurrence. "Hey, stop poking that."

Murdock pulled his uninjured hand away from the bandages. "Sorry." He smiled at Face, who couldn't help but smile back. God dammit, a third time. Why did Face always have to bond with the weird ones?

The prime example of that cleared his throat. "If you don't mind, Captain, Lieutenant," said Hannibal, "I'd like to talk to the Captain alone." He looked at Face hard. "That is, unless you have anything else you'd like to say to Murdock, Face?"

Not catching the exchange, Murdock nodded, then exhaled deeply as the action seemed to make him dizzy. Face stood up, meeting Hannibal's gaze squarely. "No, Sir." He squeezed Murdock's shoulder as he passed. "Hope you feel better, man."

"Thanks, Face." The tone of Murdock's voice made Face feel even better about his decision. The Captain had enough to worry about without stressing over one little incident where no one even got hurt. Even if BA and Hannibal hadn't been there last night, Murdock wouldn't have been able to do Face any real damage. He was a month out of a psych ward and Face was in top Ranger shape, Army strong. Murdock was no weakling, but it would have been easy enough for Face to overpower him. There was no need for Murdock to be burdened with the full knowledge of what happened last night.

And it was then, as he closed the door to Hannibal's office, that it hit Face. He was doing exactly what he'd criticised Hannibal for doing: Treating Murdock differently, "protecting" him and deciding what was in the other man's best interests. Face rubbed the back of his neck. _Okay, Hannibal,_ he thought. _Fair enough. This isn't as easy as it looks._

That really, really sucked.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks so much for the reviews! It means a lot to know that people are reading and enjoying this story.

BA found Face sweaty, on his knees in Murdock's bed. Luckily for his eyes and sanity, the blond was alone and fully-clothed. He was scrubbing determinedly at the bloodstains on the wall with a sponge and something that smelled like bleach, but seemed to be succeeding mainly in covering the wood with pieces of shredded sponge. As BA approached, Face offered a wry smile and lowered his arm.

"Interior decorating," he said, gesturing to the smudge of red. "What do you think?"

BA grunted as he settled down on his own bunk. He didn't have time for Face's flamboyant banter right now. "Think this whole thing is bullshit."

Face turned back to the wall. "You never expected Hannibal Smith's team to be by-the-book," he said neutrally, folding his tattered sponge in half and resuming his attack on the wall.

"Don't feed me that, man." BA scowled. ""You saying you always get new recruits out of mental hospitals?"

"No, this is a first." Face didn't turn around.

"You saying you always spend your mornings cleaning blood off walls."

Face scrubbed a bit harder, but his tone remained even. "No, this is a first too."

BA's fist slammed into the mattress, bouncing ineffectively. "Well, damn, man!" Frustration made him nearly shout. "Am I the only sane one here? We can't take someone like that on a mission! Hell, I wouldn't want to take him to McDonalds." When Face didn't reply, he huffed angrily and glared at the ceiling.

After several moments of awkward tension, Face dropped the sponge and flopped onto the bed, leaning tiredly against the wall he'd just been scouring. "I trust Hannibal," he said finally. "He can get caught up in ideas and sometimes his plans don't work out the way he meant them to, but they always _work_. He's going through a lot to get Murdock on the team. I don't think he'd do that if he didn't think it was worth it."

BA wondered who Face was trying to convince. "Do _you_ think it's gonna be worth it? You happy going into the field with a crazy man watching your back? Did Hannibal ask what you thought before putting your life in the hands of somebody like that?"

Face didn't like this train of thought. If BA was trying to drive a wedge between Face and Hannibal, he was going to be very disappointed. "Didn't ask me what I thought of him recruiting you, either," he pointed out.

BA accepted that one. "Hey, I ain't saying nothin' about the Colonel. He got me back in the Army. I got a lot of respect for Hannibal. I just don't know how comfortable I feel with that," BA pointed to the red stain near Face's head, "on my team."

Face sighed. He could understand that. It was hard to sort out his own thoughts on the matter with everyone else's opinions and biases running in circles around his brain. "Would it be different if it wasn't Murdock?" he found himself asking. "I know you've never really liked the guy."

BA didn't deny it. "He's annoying, doesn't know when to shut his fool trap and he's always in the way. He used the last of my motor oil to make a moat around a sand castle fort and he never stops singing. If I met him socially... I wouldn't meet him socially, because he's a damn fool and I don't associate with damn fools. But I could put up with all of that here, in the Army, if I thought I could trust him to do what he needed to do. The one time I seen him in action, he tipped me out of a helicopter and nearly got us all killed. Last night, he rips his hands up for no reason. What if we had to fly out today, man? Would you trust him to do what we need him to do when he was up half the night tearing into himself? This ain't personal. I don't like the guy here because I don't trust him, here."

"Yeah." Face could see his point, but he'd also been on Hannibal's team long enough to know what really mattered. "But we didn't get killed. They were firing heat-seeking missiles and we were in a _helicopter_, for Christ's sake." It was the first time Face had really thought about it himself. "Hannibal's right: Murdock's a damn good pilot."

"You do things no one else does, it don't make you good," argued BA. "It means you're doing things that shouldn't be done."

"They worked, though." Face paused. "What if they kept working?" Off BA's look, he explained, "Let's say we gave him a trial. A few practice runs, some training exercises, simulators, stuff like that. What if every time, he made it through to the other side?"

"I ain't getting on no plane with that crazy fool, practice run or no practice run."

"Okay, okay. But what if he _could_ do what he needed to do, in the field? I mean, technically that's what he did in Mexico." Face realised he was playing Devil's Advocate and wasn't sure how much was his own opinion and how much was Hannibal's. "What if you could trust him to get the job done?"

BA stared at Face. "I ain't getting on a plane with Murdock," he repeated. Face made an impatient "Yeah, yeah," gesture, and BA continued slowly. "But if I could trust him to cover my back, keep his head screwed on right when shit gets serious..." He thought about it for several long seconds. "I don't know, Faceman. What's the point in wondering? Not our decision anyway so it don't really matter what I think." When Face didn't have an answer for that, he closed his eyes and threw an arm over his face, tired of the whole damn thing.

BA was right. It was pointless speculating, especially when Face wasn't even sure how he felt in the _current_ situation. It had just seemed wrong to him, for some reason, to dismiss Murdock's obvious talent outright because of his other problems. Maybe Hannibal was right. Maybe Murdock was better off in a place where he could exercise those skills and not just rot away in a white room somewhere. Not just for the sake of the team, but for Murdock as well. He hadn't seemed to freeze up or flashback or experience any other PTSD-style trauma when he'd flown them out of Mexico. In fact, he'd been pretty cool under the circumstances, being yanked out of the VA and thrown into a combat situation without warning...

Face shook his head, partially to stop his thoughts from going down another futile, circular path and partially because the fumes from the bleach-covered wall were making him nauseous. He stood up and stretched. "I'm gonna get breakfast," he announced tiredly. "You want to come?"

BA shook his head without opening his eyes. Face made his way out with the sinking feeling in his gut that whatever happened with this situation, neither of them were going to be satisfied with the outcome.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Murdock swallowed as the door clicked shut behind Face, leaving him alone with Hannibal. Not because he was nervous, but because he'd started drooling a little bit. Damn sedatives. He hated the heavy feeling they gave him. It was almost worse than being completely unmedicated. Here, he still felt the creeping anxiety, the desperate thrum as his heart rate struggled to quicken against the pull of the retarding tranquilisers, the whirl of confusion and the murmur of voices, but it was all muted and tangled. It was like trying to navigate through a block of ice. He couldn't move fast enough, couldn't think fast enough, to stop the rising madness. He couldn't block out the thoughts or use those cognitive behavioural tricks or read his comics or shut his brain up because he could barely keep his eyes open. With his greatest defence, the part of his mind that was still HIS, the part that didn't belong to the disorders and the strangeness and the pulsing not-colour, the part that still did what he wanted it to, with that deactivated, Murdock was helpless against the internal suffocation. It rose up in his throat and clogged his nostrils, blurred his vision and scraped pinpricks down his skin. It made him a victim, it made him nothing but the sum of his symptoms, it made him...

...completely blank out while he was supposed to be talking to the Colonel. Shit.

Hannibal was looking at Murdock like something was wrong. There was a faint echo of sound in Murdock's ears. Had he spoken? Had Hannibal asked him a question? What had he missed?

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, as clearly as he could with a mouth filled with drying cement and dead flies. "I'm still a little fuzzy from the sedatives." A flicker of concern – and was that guilt? That hadn't been what Murdock intended. It was all snowballing in slow motion. – passed over Hannibal's features.

"Maybe you should lie down, son," he said, leaning forward in his chair. The creak of leather went on for longer than it should have, became nails down a chalkboard became a murder of crows cawing became children laughing became a dog barking became-

"Murdock?" Hannibal was standing now, would have been hovering if it was anyone but Hannibal. Standing in front of Murdock, leaning towards him but not crouching, not quite coming down to his level.

"Yes, sir." This was easier when Face was in the room. It dispersed the attention, relaxed the mood, reminded Murdock that there was someone on this team that didn't know all his embarrassing mental glitches and broken parts like broken crockery in his mind-kitchen. Yes, sir, I'm a Ranger. Yes, sir, I'm the best. Yes, sir, I will follow you anywhere because you looked at me, not the gleam in my eye that the other thing puts there, not the test scores on the simulators or the clipboards in the hands of the white coats. Yes, sir, I won't let you down. Yes, sir, I can do this. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.

Hannibal was talking again. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fucking fuck-fuck. Botheration and drats. Murdock pulled as hard as he could on his mental fishing line, trying to reel at least a portion of his attention back to his Colonel and not the sounds or the suffocating or the dead, dry slab that his tongue was in his mouth.

"...aking your medication?" The older man WAS crouching now, or Murdock was levitating again because their eyes were level. Didn't matter. Medication. Oh.

"Which ones, sir?" Polite, always say 'Sir'. Dutiful and diligent and dedicated and d...alliterate? Damn.

"...ntrusted you with the responsibility of ensuring that you monitored your situation..."

Oh. That doesn't sound good. No, he's got it wrong, tell him he's got it wr- "Sir," Murdock wasn't sure if he'd cut Hannibal off, but this was important. "Sir, I am fully capable of monitoring the situation of my mental peculiar differentness to the best of my abilities, sir."

Hannibal paused. Frowned. "Captain..." He ran a hand over his mouth, which strangely didn't contain a cigar. "Captain, look at me. Are you taking the medications that the doctor at the VA hospital prescribed for you?"

"Yes, sir." Always open with a positive, but that wasn't all the Colonel wanted to know. Murdock could tell. "Not all of them, sir."

"Okay." Hannibal was much more nice about this than the doctors and nurses at the hospital. "Why not, son?"

Murdock took a deep breath, ignoring the things that tickled on the way down his windpipe. "Well, sir, it's like a chain sequence events type of thing." His wordiness was usually much better, he was sure of it, damn sedatives. "If the mood stabilisers are working, then sometimes the anxiety meds take longer to kick in, and the anti-psychotics aren't good for hand-eye co-ordination which of course isn't something you want in a pilot, and the anti-depressants don't work so well with the mood stabilisers but when they're working, it makes me nauseous which you also don't want in a pilot, which makes me anxious but the anti-anxiety meds I'm taking at the moment don't seem to be cutting it. Sir."

To his everlasting credit, Hannibal nodded and said, "I see." He blew out a long breath and moved so he was sitting next to Murdock on the couch. "So right now, you're taking...?"

Murdock knew this one! "Triple dose of venlafaxine, it works for anxiety and obsessive thoughts even though I don't need an anti-depressant I don't think, and just a soupcon of thorazine for the anti-psychotic effect."

Hannibal said, "I see," again. Judging by his expression, Murdock did not think it meant what Hannibal thought it meant. "Murdock, why did you change your medication regime without consulting your doctor first?" His tone wasn't angry. He still seemed concerned. "I know I said that monitoring your mental welfare was something I trusted you to do on your own, but I thought you understood that by that I meant that I didn't need to personally sign off on every new treatment or medication that you needed or wanted. I still expected you to consult the professionals and take their advice on matters like this."

Murdock looked away. The things in his throat started jabbing at the corners of his eyes. He blinked hard. "I know that, sir. I didn't mean to let you down." He fiddled with the bandage on his right hand. "But, sir. The doctors wouldn't let me fly."

Hannibal made to speak, but Murdock had to continue. He pushed through the sedation, trying to move the muscles in his mouth and larynx as fast as possible because it was so important that Hannibal, the man who looked Murdock in the eyes, understood.

"They took away my pilot's licence. They grounded me, sir. They gave me the anti-depressants instead and that didn't work, it didn't make it okay at all. And now, now you've given me back my wings and I don't need the anti-depressants that don't work, but I need my skills. I can't fly with my head filled with fuzz from Zoloft or my hands not doing what I tell them to because the Risperdol's not playing nice with the Effexor again. If I went back to the doctors, they'd dope me up and I'd be useless to you, sir, and it would be like losing my license all over again.

"But I know I need some things, Colonel. I know that. I know that. I need to be focussed and I can't do that when my mind's making things bend and twist and shimmy at the edges. I need to be calm and sometimes my heart pumps the wrong stuff and my legs freeze up, like the other day at the rifle range. So, sir, I thought that if I did it this way, I could do it so I could make the good parts stay and push the bad parts back enough." Murdock made sure to hold Hannibal's gaze. "I know I must have got it wrong this time. But I'll try something else. I'll make it work, Colonel. I will be the best for your team."

Hannibal regarded the Captain for a long moment, taking in his earnest (if slightly unsteady) expression and the small trembles that ran through his shoulders. The shudders didn't seem to be bothering Murdock, if he even noticed them at all, and were completely at odds with the look in his eyes that screamed at Hannibal that he could handle this. That Murdock belonged on his team. Of that, at least, Hannibal and the pilot were in complete agreement. But as for the rest...

"Captain." Murdock's posture straightened as much as he was able. "I understand what you tried to do, and that you thought you were doing the right thing for our unit. But what _you_ need to understand is that from now on, what's best for you is what's best for this unit. You are a part of this team, Captain, and we do not have an open door acceptance policy. You know you're the best, and I know you're the best. I selected you personally for my team, and I don't make mistakes with my unit. As far as is within my power, I will personally assure your position as a pilot with me."

Murdock knew this man could see him. He knew, he KNEW. Thank you angels and heavens and little bitty baby birdies and whatever kindness in the universe allowed this man to walk into his hospital.

Hannibal's hand came up and squeezed Murdock's shoulder. It was a little awkward, a little forced, a little too hard, but it didn't matter because it was meant to be reassuring and Murdock could understand that because they understood each other. There was a bit of the gleam, the one that wasn't Murdock, in Hannibal's eyes too. It didn't seem so wrong on him, like he wore it and owned it and used it instead of being battered around by it. Yes, yes. That's how it should be.

"That said," Hannibal continued, and Murdock knew that whatever he was going to say wouldn't be that bad, because he'd just said that the worst thing would never happen again. "I need you to go back to your doctor and discuss alternative treatment plans. If you would rather see the doctor here on base, or someone else, I will arrange an appointment for you. But from now on, your medication regimen needs to be signed off weekly by a qualified physician of my approval. If it takes a few days or weeks or however long it takes to find something that works the way you just described you want it to, then I'll arrange the necessary medical leave. If that stops working, then I want you to tell me as soon as you can and we'll try again.

"In an extreme circumstance, I may have to use another pilot while you're on medical leave. I don't want that to stop you from coming to me if your medication isn't working, or if there's something else that you need help with. When you are ready to return, you'll be coming back to my team. I promise you that."

Murdock couldn't say everything he wanted to say, but he could nod furiously. Oh whoops, not furiously. Still dizzy. He could nod carefully and sedately. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"No, son. I'm sorry." Hannibal was still holding Murdock's shoulder and he gave it another too-hard-but-that's-okay squeeze. "This was my responsibility. I admit that I didn't fully appreciate the task I was handing to you when I put you in charge of this. You needed support and I'll do what I can to ensure that from now on, you have it."

And blah blah, that was fine, Murdock didn't care. He was keeping his wings. He was staying with Hannibal, who made the gleam a good thing, and Face, who could keep up when his thoughts went twisty, and BA, who was a teddy bear underneath it all, he just knew it. "Yes, sir. Thank you sir."

It was so GOOD, Murdock realised as he left Hannibal's office to lie down back at the tent. All the rest of it didn't matter, because he was here and it was clearly where he was meant to be.

It was so good that Murdock didn't even think it was important that he'd forgotten to tell Hannibal that the thorazine wasn't working.


	7. Chapter 7

Face found Murdock in the aircraft hangar. The large warehouse was otherwise empty of people, and it took a moment for Face to locate the other man as his eyes squinted to adjust from the late-afternoon California sun to relative darkness. When they did, he followed the echo of soft singing until he saw Murdock, sitting on a stack of crates beside what had to be the oldest, ugliest helicopter on the base. Face was sure that it wasn't even fit to fly. God knew what it was still doing here.

As he neared, Face realised that Murdock actually half-singing, half... conversing? in two different languages, neither of which were English. Casual-sounding, guttural comments were smoothly followed by (or interspersed with, Face couldn't tell) fluid snippets of song and back again. Murdock was leaning back on his hands, feet swinging and kicking the crates like a child on a too-tall stool. He looked relaxed, which Face was glad to see.

After the... incident a week ago, Face had been sure that the fragile dynamic of their new team had been fucked up beyond repair. But the aftermath was surprisingly anticlimactic. Hannibal said nothing further to Face (or BA, as far as he was aware), except to reiterate that Murdock was still on the team and they were just "working out some teething problems". Face wasn't sure if the older man was keeping his cards close to the chest out of respect for Murdock's privacy or because he fancied that looking smug while puffing on a cigar made him look dashing.

Murdock had spent the night afterwards away from the team, either in the med bay or an empty tent or the gutter – Face didn't really want to think about it. All he knew was, the next day Murdock had been back, acting a bit more subdued than usual but seemingly physically fine. He'd spent the rest of the week at a bit of a distance, leaving their tent early and often not returning until nearly nightfall. Face didn't know what he was doing: Therapy? Drug withdrawal? New treatments? ECT? Again, Face didn't want to think about it. All he knew about mental health was some vague stuff about PTSD they tried to drill into him in basic, and the stuff everyone seemed to absorb by osmosis thanks to pop culture icons like _One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest_. Probably a bit dated by now, come to think of it.

Murdock jerked his head in an acknowledging nod as Face approached, seeming to wind up his conversation with the ancient helicopter genially.

"Bonjour, ma petite manchot," Face greeted. It was one of the few French phrases Murdock had taught him in the weeks they'd been on base. When the conman had learned that Murdock spoke god-knew-how-many languages, he'd insisted on learning some basic phrases. Never knew when it could come in handy. Face had already spoken a bit of French and some very rusty Spanish from back at the orphanage, but he could now say, among other things, "You have beautiful eyes," in Portuguese, "Fuck your mother," in Russian, "Take me to the American embassy," in Norwegian, "These are not the fedoras I ordered," in Indonesian and "My butthole is on fire," in standard Hindi. It was all a process.

"Good," said Murdock. "But you just called me a little _girl_ penguin. You need to use 'mon' instead of 'ma', and 'petite' wouldn't have an 'e' on the end if you were spelling it."

"Apologies, my little boy penguin," said Face, taking a seat on the crate next to Murdock.

The other man rolled his eyes. "Well don't say it in English," he said, as if explaining something ridiculously obvious. "Then it just sounds weird. People will talk."

"Yeah, we probably give them enough to talk about," agreed Face, and Murdock looked away, and oh my god, Templeton, can you have one conversation with this guy without jamming your army reg boots in your mouth? Garg. This was so frustrating. Face had meant that people already talked about his own promiscuity, BA's discharge, Hannibal's... Hannibility. It wasn't just about Murdock, but it was still a stupid thing to say and now it hung in the air. Face had just sat down so he couldn't make an excuse and leave again yet. He wondered if this kind of stupid awkwardness going to be his future from now on, because he was SMOOTH, dammit. Was this how normal people felt, who couldn't rely on their wits and good looks to extricate them from unwanted situations? It really sucked. No wonder BA was so grouchy all the time.

Face sighed. Well, since he was already in it... "Haven't seen you much this week." Murdock picked at his fingernails. The bandages had come off at some point, and there were shiny patches of pink new skin that looked like they were healing well. It wasn't that bad, really. "You sick of us already?"

Murdock gave a half smile. "Yeah, I've been trying to start my own army," he drawled, and Face was so grateful for the tacit forgiveness. "Gonna secede from Uncle Sam's kingdom and declare myself King of Murdockia, but, you know, there's all this paperwork..."

It wasn't as quick or snappy as his usual banter, and there was a distinctly forced air about it, but damned if Face wasn't going to put an effort in too.

"Murdockia? That's kind of clunky. What about Murtopia?"

Murdock shook his head. "Too many Orwellian connotations. I'd end up warding off refugee philosophy students who've just read _Brave New World_ and decided to be anti-establishment."

"Isn't that what you're doing by starting a new country?"

"No, I just want to wear the paper hat from Burger King and not feel like a fraud."

Face laughed, and it was mostly genuine now. He scooted back and leaned against the crate behind him. "Okay, what about The Democratic Republic Of Murdock?"

"Pfft, that's just a rip-off. Why don't we just call it China?"

"Maybe you're on to something. How about Lebanon, The Second?"

"Or New Australia."

"Son of Saigon."

Murdock leaned back too, some of the tension leaving his posture. "Not a country. Guatemala 2: The Guatemaling"

"The Littlest Poconos."

"Again, not a country. Work with me here, Faceman. The Isle Of Me."

"The HM-alayas."

"Okay, now you're just doing it to piss me off."

"The Golden Gate Bridge."

"Stop it."

"Vancouver."

"Okay that's it," Murdock announced. "I'm revoking your passport. No entry into my country for you."

"Fine," Face shrugged, grinning back. "I'll start my own country. BA will guard the border so you can't come in."

"Man, BA could BE the country," said Murdock. "You could just pitch a tepee on his back. I guarantee you it would be at least three days before he noticed anything."

Face laughed, and BAM, there it was, the real thing. That was much better than faking it. No wonder women got so serious about their orgasms.

The two sat in comfortable silence for the first time in a week. Then Murdock spoke. "You reckon he'll be okay tomorrow?" His tone was still casual, but Face knew exactly what he was talking about.

Tomorrow would be a training run, including their first flight with Murdock since Mexico. After that, BA had barely been able to get on the plane back to the States, despite it being a commercial airline with Murdock seated (begrudgingly) in Coach with the rest of them. He'd ended up falling asleep before takeoff, something Face attributed less to stress and more to the pre-opened can of Coke Hannibal had helpfully provided. Come to think of it... Face made a mental note to ask Hannibal very sternly about whether that random sedation technique had ever been used on him. Couldn't turn your back on that man for one minute. It would be creepy if Hannibal wasn't... No, it was still kind of creepy.

The point was, BA hadn't let it go. Six weeks later now, and he still adamantly insisted that he wasn't getting on no plane with no damn fool pilot. Face wasn't sure if that meant he'd fly with someone else behind the yoke but that was a moot point because, as Hannibal had made clear, Murdock was there to stay.

"BA'll get over it," shrugged Face. "Guy's an Airborne Ranger. I'm sure he's been through worse. He just likes to hang onto a grudge or something. He'll suck it up."

"Mmm," was Murdock's non-committal reply.

Face didn't want to see his friend (_What? Friend? When did that happen? Co-worker. Pilot. Teammate. Friend? Aw fuck._) lose the happy sparkle in his eyes (_See, this is the problem. Men don't care about 'happy sparkles' in other men's eyes. Stupid Murdock, being likeable and funny and genuine. This is bullshit_.). "How about you?" he asked. "Excited about your first official flight as a member of an A-Team?"

"It's still not official yet," Murdock reminded him. "Still got all that paperwork to come through. Just like Murdovania."

Face waved a hand dismissively. Best to squash those thoughts right now. "Nah, you're in," he said. "Trust me, Hannibal's word is God with those Generals. Besides, you still need to teach me how to say something dirty in German or whatever you were just speaking."

"Dutch," Murdock corrected, that faint smile warring with the faraway look his eyes were getting. Face was surprised that the duality of it didn't freak him out as much as it used to. It was just... Murdock. "I only know a tourist's amount, but it's all the old lady could speak." He gestured to the helicopter.

"Of course," Face accepted. "What were you talking about?"

"Oh, the old birds always have stories to tell," Murdock replied vaguely. His Texan drawl was deeper as he spoke lazily, regarding the aircraft. "Felt sorry for her, sitting in here with all these shiny, flashy machines. She ain't much to look at now, but I bet in her heyday she could've showed these young upstarts a thing or two."

Face snorted softly. "Maybe you should try to convince BA to let you take him for a spin."

"Naw, she's retired now. Old gal's earned her rest."

Face was almost surprised that Murdock didn't get up and pat the chopper affectionately, like an old horse. "At least she has you to talk to," he offered.

Murdock shrugged. "Can't let her sit and rot in here all alone."

Face nodded. They lapsed into silence again. "You don't have to be worried," he offered after a moment. "Seriously, man. You're on the team, done deal. Hannibal's not about to let you go."

"I know." Murdock scratched the back of his head. "I'm not worried about that." He let out a soft chuckle. "Reckon Hannibal could stop Bosco from strangling me before the flight tomorrow? I get the feeling it could come down to him or me, gladiator-styley."

"He'll be fine," Face said again. "Don't stress over it. Uh, maybe stay out of his way tonight though, just in case."

That night, Murdock took Face's advice. He was determinedly quiet and as inoffensive as possible around BA, only directly interacting with the bigger man to gently place a plate of home-(well, base kitchen-)made chilli on the garage workbench before softly tip-toeing out of the room. The effect was somewhat spoilt when he stage-whispered, "Shhhhh!" at the creaking door on his way in and out, but the effort was definitely there. Even BA had to grudgingly admit that Murdock could cook. His recipes were all off the top of his head and often contained very unorthodox flavour combinations, but nine times out of ten, it worked.

So BA didn't notice the bitter aftertaste in the five-alarm chilli, or if he did, he chalked it up to Murdock experimenting with vinegar and lime again. And he didn't pay much attention to the rumbling of his stomach because hey, five-alarm chilli. But when he reached for the spanner and missed it by two inches, and the resulting crash of the upended toolkit sent bullets of pain through his skull, BA realised he might have a problem.

Migraine? He'd never had one of them before, but the symptoms fit. BA would have snorted if he hadn't been so afraid that moving his throbbing head would make him throw up. Migraine. Shit, that was what women pretended to have when they weren't in the mood. Least manly problem there was, unless he suddenly came down with menopause. Maybe he could just go to bed and-

Nope, nope. Throwing up in your toolkit was definitely not good. Ugh. He would clean that up tomorrow. Better head to the med bay and get some heavy-duty painkillers or something. Hopefully they'd knock him out and he'd sleep through this embarrassing woman-headache until morning, when everything would be fine.

Everything was not fine. The nurse frowned when she examined BA. "I don't think this is a migraine, Corporal." Then she was asking him if he wore a mask when spraypainting, did he keep the garage well-ventilated, had he come into contact with any dangerous or unknown chemicals, what had he eaten and drunk recently? And BA knew. FUCKING Murdock.

Two and a half hours and one pumped stomach later, BA was lying in a hospital cot attached to an ethanol drip telling the rest of his team his views on the situation.

"FOOL TRIED TO KILL ME!" he shouted, voice cracking from the tube that had been shoved down his oesophagus earlier. He ignored the ice chips Face, sitting by his cot, tried to offer and the nurse's attempts to make him stop overstraining his larynx (and frightening everyone else in the building). "HE POISONED ME! HANNIBAL! CRAZY FOOL POISONED ME!"

"Yes, BA," said Hannibal tiredly. "We're all aware of that. I think the important thing to-"

"IMPORTANT THING IS I'M IN A HOSPITAL! I COULDA DIED! You better run, fool, because when they take out this drip I'm gonna find you and I'm gonna bury your head six feet into the ground and tear the rest of you into pieces with my bare hands!"

Hannibal tried again. "Corporal, the Captain made a terrible mistake, but it _was_ a mistake. The doctor told me you're expected to make a full recovery and there was only a very small chance of liver damage, so let's look at this as a positive."

Sometimes, Face reflected, Hannibal could be very dense.

"POSITIVE!" BA's outraged shouts somehow got louder. "I EAT A PLATEFUL OF METHANOL CHILLI AND YOU TELLING ME IT'S POSITIVE? Only thing positive here is I'm gonna crush that fool so hard he's gonna pop like a grape!"

Murdock, for his part, was watching the proceedings with an almost anticipatory gleam in his eyes. He didn't seem nearly as upset by the situation as Face and, of course, BA thought he should be. As BA continued to promise Murdock "so many worlds of pain, fool!", the pilot leaned over and asked the nurse a question. She looked a bit surprised, then replied. Murdock's face broke into a full smile.

"-CLEANING OUT MY TOOLKIT TOO, FOOL! And if any of those tools ain't PERFECT, I'm gonna ram them up your-"

"BA," Murdock interrupted, smiling widely. "BA." The man stopped ranting, if only because he was awestruck that Murdock had the audacity to grin at his soon-to-be murderer. Murdock spoke to the nurse. "Tell him what you told me."

The nurse looked a little unsure, but said, "Um. I was telling you that Corporal Baracus won't be fit for any strenuous activity for the next couple of days?"

Murdock beamed as though this was the punchline to the greatest joke he'd ever heard. He looked expectantly at BA.

_Oh god, no,_ thought Face, burying his namesake in his hands. _No, he couldn't have possibly thought..._

It seemed Hannibal was on the same page, even if BA had yet to catch up. Face hoped he'd have developed the ability to teleport to a land far far away (preferably populated solely by lonely, beautiful women) before the big man clued in. "Captain," asked Hannibal slowly. "Did you put mentholated spirits in Corporal Baracus's food on purpose?"

"WHAT?" And still no teleporting abilities for Face. Figured.

Murdock nodded, seemingly blissfully unaware that he'd just signed his Baracus-certified death warrant. It was one thing for BA to threaten him when he was angry and blustery. They'd all, even Hannibal, been on the receiving end of the mohawked man's whiplash temper. But something like this... Face groaned softly. Two steps forward, eighty-four steps back.

"Now you don't have to fly tomorrow, Bosco," Murdock explained helpfully, smile still large and shining. "And no one can say you tried to get out of it, either, because you didn't know what was in the food. He didn't know, Colonel."

Hannibal had a hand up to his mouth and Face knew he was wishing he could smoke here. "No, Murdock, I'm sure he didn't."

BA, to everyone's surprise, didn't seem to know what to say. Murdock was so pleased: BA was speechless with gratitude.

"It's okay, big guy," he said understandingly. "It was nothing. Hey, when you're ready I'll take you on a nice, smooth flight, just you and me, and you can just baby-steps your way back into it."

"Fly?" BA asked, looking bewildered before his features decided that they were so hella pissed off. "FLY? You poisoned me on PURPOSE and now you're trying to get me to FLY?"

Murdock's grin faded slightly, but not much. "Well, not right away. Whenever you're ready, big guy. No rush."

"I'M GONNA KILL YOU, FOOL! HANNIBAL! DID YOU HEAR WHAT CRAZY FOOL SAID? I'M GONNA KILL HIM!"

Face stood up quickly and crossed the room to Murdock. "Come on, buddy," he urged. "Let's go grab some coffee at the mess hall."

Murdock was looking at BA, confused, as Face took his elbow and firmly steered him out of the room. "Uh, I don't drink coffee."

"Well, let's get some iced tea then."

"But..." Murdock's protests faded as Face nearly dragged him down the corridor away from the furious BA.

They definitely still had work to do.


	8. Chapter 8

A trip to the mess hall for some tea turned into a raid of the kitchen pantries, which led to an idle comment about Milo versus traditional cocoa, which turned into a serious debate, which led to an uncooked-spaghetti-noodle duel, which led to Face and Murdock's ejection from the building. Face had managed to smuggle a packet of marshmallows under his shirt (much like primitive man used to do with mammoths, Murdock had informed him) and the two headed back to their billet to enjoy their spoils. They wanted to roast them on toothpicks with one of Hannibal's lighters, but four had caught fire, two melted and fell onto the floor and the one that did work tasted like lighter fluid. Murdock assured Face that the cavemen wouldn't have thought less of them for eating the marshmallows raw.

Once most of the packet was gone and there was a light dusting of icing sugar on everything within a three foot radius, Face and Murdock lapsed into a sated silence. They were half-sitting, half-sprawled on Murdock's cot, Murdock at the head and Face at the foot, legs angled to make room. Face rubbed his belly absently and wondered how many crunches it would take to work off this sugar overload. Then he groaned as the thought of doing crunches made his swollen stomach lurch. _Never again_, he vowed in a voice that he promised himself sounded nothing like Scarlett O'Hara. _Never again_.

He'd been staring into the middle distance, but Face blinked and surfaced from his food coma when he realised that the middle distance was Murdock. Murdock wasn't looking back at him, attention focused instead on the faint red stain on the wall that no amount of bleach had managed to remove. His face was nearly blank, a small frown and slight tension to his mouth the only signs that he was actually studying the stain and not simply staring off in thought, as Face had been.

"How's the hand?" asked Face. He was never one for elephants in the room.

Murdock's demeanour changed instantly. Turning to Face with a wide grin, he replied brightly. "Five-fingered and opposable-thumbed. It'll never play the violin again, but why would I want it to?"

Face decided to press a little harder. The mood was relaxed, Murdock's attention span seemed to be doing alright... It was a good time for this conversation, right? Hoping he wasn't about to fuck things up, Face asked, "So you still don't remember doing it?"

"Playing the violin?" Murdock gave a small, high-pitched laugh. "I remember everything about Venice as if it were yesterday. Gondola rides, serenades in the moonlight, that attentive busboy with the endearing skin condition. Just me and my violin and our whole lives in front of us."

Normally, Face would have played along, or at least dropped the subject since it was obvious that Murdock wanted to. They'd been having fun being stupid and eating sugar – why ruin it? But what had happened tonight with BA was serious. Face had to deal with that, and if he had to, then so did Murdock. Sticking their heads in the sand wasn't going to be the best way to deal with this in the long run.

"Your hand. Do you remember hurting your hand?"

"Never had a hand I couldn't beat." Then, boisterous and off-key: "Gotta know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em..."

"Were you really talking to the helicopter today?" Maybe if Face just asked all the questions that had floated through his brain in the time that he'd known Murdock, one of them would stick.

"Talking to a helicopter?" An odd, off-centre giggle. "I would never chat with a chopper. Converse with a convoy. Barter with a Boeing. They make terrible soup and always steal my left mittens. Worst houseguests ever."

Things were unravelling quickly ("things" being Murdock's equilibrium), but Face couldn't stop now. "Why did you put metho in BA's dinner?"

Murdock's face fell. "You KNOW why, Face. I told you." The marshmallows in Face's stomach made it lurch again as Murdock dropped the games. "What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem, buddy," Face said honestly. "I like you." God, that sounded way less fruity in his head. "I want you on this team." There, that was better. _Always screen your thoughts before speaking, Templeton!_ "I just want to know what's going on with you."

To Face's dismay, Murdock let out a bark of that awful laugh. "Facey, no one knows what's going on with me." He took in Face's expression. "What, you didn't know?"

"I don't..." Face tried not to gape as he got his head around that question and its implications. "Your files are confidential, so..."

"Oh." Murdock was cocking his head now, still looking amused but in a somehow much less pleasant way than he had during the pasta duel. "I thought you would have seen them."

It wasn't said in a malicious or accusatory way: It was a simple statement of fact. Face couldn't blame Murdock for his assumption. Actually, he was wondering now why he hadn't thought of doing that before. It felt wrong to think about; slimy somehow. Like it would be a betrayal, even though he'd known Murdock less than two months. Face decided then that he'd have to find at least three sets of open-minded sisters to sleep with as soon as possible to get rid of the creeping suspicion that his life was becoming an after-school special.

"I didn't." There was an uncomfortable pause as Murdock watched Face and Face waited for Murdock to offer information. "Um. What did you mean, nobody knows?"

"Nobody knows what's wrong with me." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was something he'd recited many times before. Face watched in fascinated horror as Murdock began ticking off his fingers. "Schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, OCD, severe depression, depression with manic episodes, bipolar, borderline personality disorder, anxiety disorder." He took a breath and began ticking off again. "Thorazine, risperdol, valium, venlafaxine, Haldol, ziprasidone to name a few, your standard and not-so-standard SSRIs, mood stabilisers, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics. Cognitive therapy, behavioural therapy, group therapy, solitary confinement, ECT, hypnosis, holistic exploration of self." Face flinched as Murdock suddenly hit the side of his head with his palm, hard. "None could contain the awe and power that is the Brain Of Murdock!"

"Holy fuck." Face knew his mouth was hanging open, but. Holy fuck. He knew you didn't get into a mental institution for having a penchant for sock puppet theatre, but still... "You've been diagnosed with all that?"

Murdock nodded, eyes bright from that unnaturally-wide grin. "Diagnosed, un-diagnosed, re-diagnosed. No one can seem to agree. I'm a pickle wrapped in a mystery layered in pastry crust."

Face was sure that wasn't the expression, but that was the least of his concerns at the moment. "How the hell did Hannibal get you signed into his care?" It probably wasn't the most tactful thing to say, but it was better than, _"Shouldn't you be in a rubber room wearing a diaper?"_

Murdock shrugged, like he didn't really care. "I think one of the doctors might have tipped him off about me. I remember someone asking a lot of questions about my flight history, Army records, something like that. I think it was just before you guys came. Maybe. Or after. Maybe I'm just having déjà vu."

This explained a lot. It explained a hellava fuckton lot. Murdock was schizophrenic, except he wasn't. He was manic, but he wasn't. Murdock's brain was undiagnosable. Face nearly laughed. It certainly fit. He'd never known anyone with a severe mental illness to function the way the pilot did, and no one in their right minds would, well, function the way the pilot did. It was like he was trying to ski with rollerblades, or do the foxtrot with one leg. Murdock came at things from the angles he did because he was trying to fit a square brain into a round hole.

Face needed time to process all this, so the next thing he asked was, "Where did you get the idea to put stuff in BA's food so he wouldn't have to fly?"

Unfortunately, it seemed to be the wrong question. Murdock's shoulders slumped and he looked away, chewing on a thumbnail. "Oh. See, that's the thing," he drawled, voice more subdued. "I don't really know."

When Face didn't immediately nod in understanding, Murdock continued. "I get ideas in my head, except they're not MY ideas. Don't look at me like that, I know it sounds crazy. I just told you I'm nuts. That was my disclaimer. I get these ideas and they're not always mine, but sometimes I can't tell the difference. I wanted to get BA out of flying, kind of a gesture of goodwill that would hopefully stop the big guy from looking at me like he wants to use my bones to pick his teeth, and somehow I got the idea that if he was sick, he wouldn't have to fly. Not _really_ sick," Murdock looked at Face earnestly, "but just a little ol' 24-hour thing that the medics here on base could take care of. I'm pretty sure that part was my idea. I'm not sure about the specifics."

"So... So you do hear, like, voices?" Murdock nodded, chewing on his thumbnail like he was waiting for the axe to fall. Face couldn't blame him – it was a hell of a thing to be telling your new teammate. He searched for an inoffensive and non-clichéd way to ask his next question. He didn't find one. "Are you seeing people in the room right now?"

To his relief, Murdock laughed – his real laugh, not the scary laugh of dead clowns and manic pilots. "It ain't like that, Face. I know when what I'm seeing is there and when my brain's playing funnies on me. Couldn't do much good flying if I kept doing loops to avoid all the dragons, could I?"

"You'd do loops anyway."

"Got me there," Murdock consented. "I know... It's hard to explain." He chewed his nail some more. "Sometimes I hear things, sometimes there's a person there that I know isn't there to anyone else, but that's not as bad as when I'm not sure if it's me or the... whateveritis, giving me ideas. You know? Like, if you go to the store and you're low in vitamin C, you might want to buy a ton of oranges. Then later, you'd be like, 'What the fuck? Why are there oranges all over my house?'"

Face could kind of see what Murdock was trying to get at. "Like altered thinking, if you're drunk or something."

"Yeah! Only, instead of when I'm drunk, it's all the time and I don't know which one's the real me sometimes. That's when it gets hard." He stared at the doona for a few long moments. Face let him order his thoughts. "So, in answer to your question, I don't know where the idea to put methanol in Bosco's chilli came from. I didn't mean to hurt him though. I wouldn't- I would never hurt any of you. You're my unit."

There was something in Murdock's eyes, behind the weird shine they got sometimes, that made Face inexplicably sad. He cleared his throat. "We know that, buddy." An idea occurred to him. "What about this? What if, and you can say no if you want to, but what if, when you're not sure about something you're thinking, you come to me and I can tell you where it lies on the crazy continuum?" Murdock smiled faintly at that and, encouraged, Face continued.

He held his hands apart like someone measuring a fish and wiggled one. "Here's "normal", but we won't be needing that." He brought that hand closer to the other. "Here's Captain Sanders, you know, the one with the wife and two kids? Probably has a picket fence and a well-trained border collie?" Murdock nodded, eyes flicking between Face's hands and face. The hand moved further right. "Here's BA on a good day, as long as you don't mention his van or f-l-y-i-n-g." He winked and Murdock snorted. He moved his hand again. "Here's me when I'm not stuck in some tyres because I slept with a psycho General's wife." The hands were about a foot apart now. "This is you when you're good crazy. Also Hannibal when he's not on the jazz." Closer. "This is Hannibal when he's on the jazz, and you when you're still good crazy but you think that stealing BA's tools will make him like you."

"It will!" Murdock interjected. "It shows him that I'm taking an interest in his hobbies and pursuits."

"It's the grown-man version of pulling his pigtails, but that's not the point here." Face held up his hands, which were now about three inches apart, and waved them demonstratively. "This is the bad-crazy part, so if you want I can watch out for it with you."

Face knew it was taking on a lot. He knew that Murdock had glossed over his problems and that they probably hadn't seen the worst of it yet. But damned if he didn't think, as Murdock beamed at him, that it would be worth it.


	9. Chapter 9

BA hadn't meant to overhear. He was in the makeshift weights area at the back of the small gym the base provided. For once, he'd managed to find himself without the shadow of Murdock, which was a huge fucking relief. Since the poisoning incident two weeks ago, the pilot had taken to tailing BA like a really stupid, annoying, floppy-haired dog. He seemed to have taken the fact that Baracus hadn't actually murdered him as a sign that all was forgiven and he could go back to prancing around like a damn idiot wherever BA happened to be.

Truth was, the Corporal didn't know what to make of the whole incident. He could almost understand the logic (such as it was) behind Murdock's actions, and when he realised that, he slammed the door shut on that line of thought right away. Once the fire of his first reaction had cooled down, BA didn't really think that Murdock had meant him any harm. Still. No good could come from trying to work out that fool's motivations. Understanding crazy was too close to accepting it and allowing it. Better to just not think about it and never accept food from the idiot again. It almost bothered BA that he wasn't more upset about the whole thing, but he shut that mental door too.

Whatever his views of Murdock's actions and sanity, BA was sure of one thing: The fool was the most annoying person on the face of the Earth. He couldn't shower without Murdock suddenly appearing and passing him the soap, or work in the motor pool without turning to find the idiot holding the tool he needed (usually with the intention to run away with it, laughing like a retarded hyena while BA chased him around base with a wrench, roaring threats of pain and dismemberment). It was a relief to be able to do reps without Murdock standing over him counting off, "One major repetition! Two major repetitions! Come on, big guy! Three major repetitions!" BA was running out of ways to call him a damn idiot.

Without Murdock chanting in his ear for once, BA was able to concentrate on his routine. It also meant that he could hear the other two occupants of the gym talking as they worked out. They were fellow Corporals – he'd seen them around on base but never really talked to them. Their unofficial (as yet) team was largely ignored by the rest of the base, which suited BA fine. He wasn't here to make friends and he wouldn't have to work with any of these men after they'd received the official Okay to operate as Rangers under Colonel Smith. Sweating and breathing hard as he pushed his body to give him more, BA barely noticed the other men's conversation until a few key words filtered through and his ears perked up of their own accord (damn nosy ears).

"-eard they got that pilot back his wings," one was saying as they stretched. "Muldoon or Murdock or something."

"Murdock," confirmed his companion. "Motherfucker."

BA pushed harder. One. Two. One. Two.

"I talked to Daniels." The first one again. "He was there when, you know, back when it happened. Not the same unit, but he was stationed at the same base."

"What's he think?"

BA replaced the weights and breathed deeply, sweat pouring off him and blood pounding in his ears from the workout.

"He thinks it's bullshit. Guy doesn't belong here. He shouldn't be flying; he should be locked up somewhere."

The second man huffed out what could have been an awkward attempt at a laugh. "That's harsh, Mick."

BA wiped the sweat off his face and sat up, towelling off the bench.

"'S'not harsh," argued Mick. "He should be in a padded room, not training up to be part of an A-Team."

"Yeah. That's pretty fucked up."

BA stood and draped his towel across his neck. "What'd he do?"

The other men turned sharply, looking both affronted and guilty at being listened to. Neither answered immediately, so BA asked again. "They're training Murdock to be part of my team. Sounds like you're talking about something I should know."

The men exchanged a definitely guilty glance at that.

"Hey, sorry man," said Mick, lowering his leg from the bench on which he'd been stretching. "Didn't realise it was you."

BA decided to save his "all negroes look alike" comment for another time and let the man finish.

It was the second, so-far nameless man who spoke next. "I know we shouldn't be talking about it..."

"But you were," said BA, levelling them with a hard stare. "So you gonna keep talking about it. I won't tell anyone where I heard this from but you're gonna tell me. What did Murdock do?"

The men shifted uncomfortably, but Mick answered. "You really haven't heard about this?"

BA's glare answered for him. It did that a lot.

"Well," continued Mick hesitantly. "And yeah, you can't say you got this from me, and a bunch of it's just stuff I heard so I'm not sure..." BA's glare told him to hurry it up. "But, uh. Murdock, the pilot, he didn't _do_ anything, really." The glare said that wasn't enough information.

Guy #2 took over. BA decided to call him Slackjaw. "I wasn't there," he offered, clearly intent on staying on BA's good side. "All I know is, he and his team were shot down in Afghanistan, I think it was Afghanistan but it might not have been, on a hush mission a few years back. They were picked up by insurgents, or it might have been Al Qaeda, anyway, they were captured."

Slackjaw was the worst storyteller ever. Sensing this, Mick picked up the story. "They didn't find the camp where the team was being held for a couple of months. They'd all been starved, tortured, you know. Your guy, Murdock, was the only survivor. I heard when they found him, he was tied to the bodies of the rest of his team. They'd, uh, they'd been dead for a while."

That was something that BA would process later. For now, he wanted the facts. "Why didn't they kill him too?"

Slackjaw took the reins again. "His rank, I guess? I think the Colonel died in the crash, or from his injuries or something. The pilot was next in line. I guess they figured that he'd be the best one to use for information."

"We don't know much," Mick hastened to explain in case BA was simple. "But that's what's going around. I'm not saying he's not a good pilot!" Another thing he didn't know was BA's personal experience with Murdock. "He's the best. I know people who've flown with him. I'm sure he's great for your team." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "We were just talking 'cause we don't know him."

BA realised he'd misinterpreted their conversation entirely. They hadn't been saying that Murdock wasn't fit to fly – at least not for the reasons he'd been thinking.

Without another word, BA stomped out of the gym and headed for the showers.

When he returned to the team's billet, there was Murdock. Lying on his bunk, reading a comic and singing to himself like a damned fool. He brightened when he saw BA enter. 

"Bosco!" Murdock sat up and bounced eagerly. "You been working out? I looked for you in the mess hall and the motor pool and the rifle range, but I couldn't find you. Faceman said you might be in the showers, but I remembered what you said last time I looked for you there so I didn't check." He beamed, like BA would praise him for NOT being barging into someone else's shower stall like a retard. "I forgot about the gym. Ah well. Did you have a good workout?"

"Yeah." BA threw his dirty clothes and towel into the hamper. Rifling through his stack of magazines to find something he hadn't read yet, BA asked, "Hey, fool. You ever met a guy called Daniels?"

Murdock wrinkled his nose. "Daniels? I don't think so. Why?"

"Never mind." BA glanced over. Murdock was watching him curiously. BA sighed and sat down on his own cot. "Hey, fool."

Murdock bounced again, smiling at BA like a damn puppy again. "Yep?"

BA looked away. "Never mind."


	10. Chapter 10

Hannibal woke to the sound of voices. A glance at the digital display by his bed revealed the time to be Way Too Early Even For The Army o'clock. Still, he pulled himself out of bed and dragged a chair over to Murdock's cot. Settling himself in and stretching his certainly-no-stiffer-than-the-average-young-man's muscles, he took in the scene before him.

Murdock was curled in a bastardised foetal position on his bunk, sheets tangled and vibrating with the force of his tremors. His legs were curled underneath him and he was bent forward, nose almost touching his knees and hands convulsively clutching and releasing at his hair. Face was crouched near the head of his cot, murmuring lowly and rubbing the pilot's back. Neither of them looked up as Hannibal moved over, but the Colonel could tell by Face's slight shift of body language that his Lieutenant knew he was there.

"I just want it to stop," Murdock was saying through gritted teeth. "I can't-" He broke off with a low sound of pain. "I hate this. I want it to stop."

What could you say to that? "Here, have a sleeping pill, things won't be better in the morning but you won't have to deal with them for a few hours"? "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, pesky psychosis"? There was nothing to say to make it magically better, so Face wasn't trying. He could talk his way out of nearly any situation and charm the pants off a monk, but now he was muttering soothing nonsense.

"I know," he said, still rubbing circles on Murdock's back. The way the pilot was curled, his vertebrae made ridges in his sweat-soaked shirt. "I know. It's okay. I'm here. Listen to me, don't listen to them. I'm here. It's okay."

For the first time, Hannibal truly appreciated what Face had said to him that day in his office, about Hannibal not being qualified to make judgement calls about Murdock's mental health. He'd read the files, spoken to the doctors, thought he'd known all the relevant facts, but seeing the manifestation of those clinical terms and (sketchy, at best) diagnoses was a whole other monster.

From the information Hannibal had found, Murdock had experienced his first auditory hallucination at age 14. At age 16, he was diagnosed with anxiety disorder and prescribed fluvoxamine and began seeing a clinical psychologist. At 17, he experienced an increase in auditory hallucinations and reported his first visual hallucination. He suffered a psychotic break in the same year, his psychologist noting that paranoia, memory loss and uncharacteristic verbal and physical aggression towards himself and others were present during the attack. Murdock was prescribed thorazine and buspirone and his diagnosis was changed to schizophrenia.

After that, the file read like a roulette board of diagnoses, symptoms and treatments. Spin the wheel, see where it lands. What had drawn Hannibal's attention at the time, when he was first alerted to Murdock's talents by an old doctor friend from Korea, was that throughout all this, Murdock was gaining his pilot's licence at the youngest age of any American since the sixties. The Army accepted him, whitewashing his record because they knew damn well that he was the best. If they could use him and he could fly when and where they needed him to, they didn't care about the rest.

At the time, Hannibal had thought that this demonstrated Murdock's good old-fashioned toughness and a no pity, no bullshit attitude. He'd thought that his pilot could simply take a few pills, maybe have a session or two with his old doctors if he needed it, and be fit for service. Hannibal could put up with some eccentricities: Hell, it was damn entertaining to watch some of Murdock's antics around base when he first arrived, and the pilot had been so transparently thrilled about being back in active service that Hannibal had been sure he'd done the right thing. If he was totally honest with himself, he'd admit that he felt pretty proud of himself for being this troubled, brilliant young man's White Knight. Swooping in, rescuing Murdock from oppressive doctors who didn't understand that a bent mind didn't mean a broken spirit.

Watching his boys now, Hannibal tasted something bitter in the back of his throat as he realised that _he'd_ been the one who hadn't fully understood. Was he right to have Murdock on his team? He'd never change his views on that score. But it wasn't going to be as clear-cut as he'd thought. Hannibal, for the first time in a long while, felt like a fool.

On the cot, Murdock twisted and shook, hands pulling viciously at his hair now as he tried to get away from something in his own head. Face stopped rubbing, but didn't take his hand off Murdock's back.

"I'm sorry," Murdock moaned, voice muffled by the angle of his head, tipped down towards the mattress. "I'm sorry. I can't. God." His hands fisted in his hair, jerking out and slamming back into his skull. He made that awful, low sound again. "It's so loud. I hate this. Fuck. God, it's so loud. I can't."

Face glanced at Hannibal helplessly. Hannibal didn't want to intervene – didn't want to remind Murdock of being cornered, pinned down by orderlies (or worse) – but if Murdock escalated and got violent, there could be no other option.

Reaching over, Face tried to pry Murdock's fingers open to loosen the grip on his own hair. "Hey, buddy, it's okay," he soothed. "You're not gonna like it tomorrow if you have big bald spots. That cap can't cover everything, yeah? Come on, let go for me, it's okay."

He was alternately stroking Murdock's fingers and pulling, but it didn't seem to be working. Murdock made a choked sound and groaned something incoherent.

Suddenly, to Hannibal and Face's surprise, BA was there. Swatting Face away impatiently, the bigger man grabbed Murdock's wrists and dug his thumbs into the pressure points at the base of Murdock's palms. The reaction was instantaneous: With a gasp, Murdock released his hair and raised his head, eyes red and surprised, if unfocused.

BA didn't give anyone time to question him. "Get on the bed," he told Face in a tone that had Face scooting in beside Murdock before he had time to realise that he'd just been given an order by a Corporal.

Nearly picking Murdock up off the bed entirely, BA easily manipulated the pilot so he was uncurled, practically lying in Face's lap because the cot was so small. The larger man perfunctorily arranged Murdock's arms around Face, looping around his back and across his midsection, before drawing back.

BA glared at Murdock. "Don't go pullin' at your damn hair, fool," he said sternly. "You hear me?"

Murdock nodded, jaw slack and body still wracked with tremors.

BA grunted and stomped back to his own bunk, muttering something about "crazy fools" and "gotta do everything myself" and "two thirty in the goddamn morning" as he climbed under the covers and settled himself again, back to the group.

Murdock swallowed and sniffed, fists now gripping Face's tee and warping it out of shape. Hannibal knew that it was a sign of the Lieutenant's affection for the pilot that he didn't protest the maltreatment of his nightwear. The Colonel looked over to BA's bunk, watching his breathing settle as he went back to sleep.

Well. That was unexpected.


End file.
